


send my love

by halcydonia



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, One-Sided Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 05:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7421476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halcydonia/pseuds/halcydonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sicheng belongs to Nakamoto. Kun’s feelings don’t matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	send my love

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [NCTprompts](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/NCTprompts) collection. 



When Sicheng comes by with a bag full of groceries, Kun knows to put on a tight-lipped smile and welcome him in. 

"Nakamoto's been mean to you again," he says, rifling through the plastic bag. There's ginger, some ground pork, scallions, rice. It seems like Sicheng has forgotten that Kun lives alone; lately, the small bags of rice have been piling up in Kun's cabinet, one for each time Nakamoto has made Sicheng cry. 

"I don't know why you can't call him by his first name," Sicheng scolds without heat, already side-stepping in to hang his jacket behind the door. Kun shrugs in reply. 

It’s familiar, Kun making his way to the kitchen while Sicheng putters quietly behind him. “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you’re hungry while you wait,” Kun remembers as he begins marinating the pork in soy sauce and cooking wine. Sicheng helps himself with habituated movements; the microwave is hidden behind the coffeemaker, the plates underneath the bowls on the shelf. 

“What is it this time?“ Kun asks almost harshly, browning the pork as Sicheng munches away. 

“Yuta is learning Thai now, for a job. He says that I’m a distraction. A burden.” And that’s probably not all Nakamoto said, Kun figures, because Sicheng tends to keep the most painful things to himself. In a bizarre way, Kun understands Nakamoto's sentiment; who wouldn’t be distracted by Sicheng fresh from a dress rehearsal, eyes smoked and jawline contoured so that every one of his features is shown in sharp relief? Sicheng looks striking, angry. It takes all of Kun’s will to turn back to stir the pot of simmering rice. 

Kun hardly cares to know all of the details of Nakamoto’s life, but he does know that Nakamoto is translator of sorts, for clients from politicians to celebrities to businessmen. On any given day he’s likely to be sweet, affable, and totally personable. On a job, though, he’s simple and single-minded in getting his work done, and it turns him cold, irritated. 

“Is he going abroad soon?” Kun asks, more out of consideration than curiosity. 

Sicheng nods, wiping grease from his fingers. “In two weeks. For a month.”

“And you two are going to make up before he leaves?” Sicheng shoots him a reproachful glare, and Kun sighs in defeat. The fragrant ginger scallion oil he’s frying is making him lightheaded. 

“You’d better wash up. We can watch a movie or something while the porridge cooks.”

Sicheng nods and hands his plate to Kun before padding to the washroom. He stretches, clasping his hands above his head, and Kun sees green tendrils of body paint reaching around his shoulders and back under the black leotard he wears. He must have only just re-dyed his hair for his new show; there are tracks of red at the nape of his neck from sweat. 

When Sicheng returns, Kun’s already put a movie on, something with lots of bangs and shouts and distractions. It’s easy for Sicheng to slide beside him on the couch and rest his head in Kun’s lap, curl his arms and legs into his body. There’s a quiet moment when Kun has to adjust to Sicheng’s warm weight, but then he brushes his fingers through the dark locks of Sicheng’s hair, traces the smudges of kohl around his eyes. Before, the makeup had made him look like a fearsome warrior prince; now, it just makes him look tired. 

Some time after the intro, Kun cranks up the volume so that he can only tell that Sicheng is crying from the wracking sobs that make Kun’s own body vibrate. Sicheng prefers it that way, embarrassed by his own weakness and desperation for Yuta’s love. There’s a heart-thumping crash from the television, and he shivers closer to Kun’s body. 

When the shivers become more frequent and Sicheng begins to feel like a hot coal in Kun’s lap, Kun gets up to retrieve a cooling cloth and a bowl of porridge. Kneeling next to the head of the couch, he can see the flush across Sicheng’s cheeks, and he wipes away sweat and tear tracks blackened by makeup. Carefully, he edges onto the couch and rests Sicheng’s head in his lap to spoon porridge into his mouth. The first time they had done this after Sicheng and Nakamoto’s first fight, Kun had dribbled porridge all down Sicheng’s chin, leaving stains on the couch that have long since faded. They’d both laughed until they were crying, but Sicheng had finally smiled showing all of his teeth. Kun’s hands are now deft after years of practice. 

“This is just how my mother made porridge when I was little,” Sicheng says after a while, voice scratchy. 

“Because I got this recipe from your mother, you idiot,” Kun replies fondly, taking a break to rest the cool cloth on Sicheng’s forehead. “I reckon I speak to her more than you do, nowadays.”

“Mm. Yuta and I were thinking to go back to Zhejiang sometime this year, and then to Shanghai or Hong Kong. You should come with us, too. Goodness knows my family would love to see you, and we could stay in Fujian for a bit maybe?” The way he says it is completely guileless, and he smiles up at Kun before shutting his eyes. 

Kun takes a heaving sigh and gently shakes Sicheng’s shoulders. “C’mon. C’mon Sicheng- _ah_ ,” he chides. “Don’t sleep just yet. Let’s get you into bed.”

They hobble together, arm in arm, to Kun’s bedroom. There was once a time when Kun had been able to pick Sicheng up with a little effort, all lean muscle and not an ounce of fat from all of his dancing. Now, Kun can’t keep up with his gym dates because he’s a working adult. He’s getting _old_ , not even thirty and counting grey hairs and crow’s feet wrinkles in the mornings. Kun tucks Sicheng under the covers, feels his forehead to see if the fever’s gone down. Sits on the floor beside him, because he thinks they’re too old now to be sharing a bed as friends. Sicheng watches him, something like wariness in his eyes.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m dating you, Kun- _ge_ ,” he whispers. “You make me food, you comfort me when I’m sad, you treat me when I’m sick.” It sounds like a joke that’s fallen flat. 

Kun snorts noncommittally, even though he has to clench his teeth. “I’d certainly treat you better than your boyfriend is now.” But that sounds a little more than petty, so he amends, “Look, Sicheng- _ah_. I will always be here for you as your best friend. I love you. Just… differently than Nakamoto does.” _Even more than he does_ , Kun wants to add, but he _is_ trying not to be petty, after all. 

“He really does love me a lot, you know.”

Kun raises an eyebrow. "He's hurt you almost every time I see you now.” 

"He hurts me almost every time we speak," Sicheng replies. To his credit, he only sounds a little bit sad. 

“Then why must you put yourself through this?” Kun bites back, a taste like acid on his tongue. “Every month, every few weeks coming here to cry yourself until you’re ill? You can leave him. You can leave him any time you want — ”

"Kun," Sicheng admonishes lightly, and Kun knows to shut his mouth. The last time he'd spoken against Nakamoto and persisted, Sicheng hadn't talked to him for several weeks until he had apologized. It’s times like these when Kun forgets the wide-eyed boy he leaned on when he had first moved to Korea, the little boy who would speak to him in Mandarin and translate their teachers’ lectures. The boy who smiled so carelessly and felt no pain or heartache. 

But Kun does remember a tantalizing scene from a long, long time ago, when he was eleven and Sicheng was ten. They’d been studying _hangul_ together at Kun’s home after school when Sicheng suddenly surged forward and pressed their lips together.

“I love you, Kunnie- _hyung_!” he had said in Korean, smiling with his eyes, and Kun had felt as though his mouth had been glued shut. They had never once talked about the kiss afterward, because at least Kun never figured out what it had meant. But often now Kun aches to remember every vivid detail, the feel of Sicheng’s lips on his, the unconditional adoration in his voice — especially on nights like this when Sicheng is in his bed, seeking comfort only Kun can give. 

It’s on these nights that Kun regrets, and he _hurts_.

In the end, it was Nakamoto whom Sicheng clung to the most when he had first come to Korea. Nakamoto, a foreigner himself who had taken Sicheng’s hand the first day they met and taught him the differences between _jeondaetmal_ and _banmal_ , and how to bow ninety degrees to seniors. Kun transferred into Sicheng’s class a few years later, when Sicheng already understood the subtleties of Korean culture and began to look at Nakamoto like some sort of idol. 

Kun is shaken from his reverie when Sicheng drops his hand to catch Kun's fingers in his lap. “Hey,” he says, quiet, “I love you too, _ge_. Thank you.” And he pats the empty side of the bed next to him before closing his eyes, face finally relaxing as he drifts to sleep.

Slowly, carefully so as to not disturb him, Kun tucks Sicheng’s hand back next to his chest and makes his way to the other side of the bed. He slides under the covers and reaches out until he’s close enough to feel Sicheng’s feverish body heat with his fingertips, but not close enough to actually touch him. 

_I love you_ , he mouths, because he still does not have the courage to say it out loud, raw and heated, even after all of these years. _Sicheng-ah, I love you._

Kun startles when the doorbell rings, and Sicheng briefly stirs in his sleep. There are a thousand things that run through Kun's head at the same time — Sicheng lying across his lap, the hotness of his forehead, the roughness of his finger pads, the effortlessness of his _I love you_ 's, the way he says Nakamoto's name — but he just shudders it all away and gives his best friend one last, aching look before answering the door. 

“Nakamoto,” he says curtly, unimpressed by Nakamoto’s crumpled suit and bloodshot eyes. 

“Kun,” Nakamoto replies with a wan smile. Kun is definitely not petty, especially not since he’s stepping out of the way into the apartment when all he really wants to do is throttle Nakamoto’s ass. 

“He’s sleeping,” he warns instead, and lets Nakamoto into the bedroom. But Sicheng is awake now, and he cocks his head up just a bit so that they can see last bits of kohl smudged around his eyes. He smiles blearily, skipping past Kun entirely to look at Nakamoto instead. 

“Yuta…” he murmurs, groggy, and suddenly Kun feels so angry. He feels hatred and jealousy and an overwhelming sense of loss well up in his belly and threaten to spill over in sobs and screams. But with the way that Nakamoto goes to kneel on the floor next to Sicheng’s head, the way that Sicheng reaches out for him automatically, Kun’s feelings aren’t worth it. They don’t matter. 

So he goes back to his kitchen, full of the scent of Sicheng’s mother’s porridge but otherwise agonizingly empty, and begins to pack away the cooling food for Sicheng to take home for tomorrow. Kun already knows that he won’t call for a couple days; he’ll be busy practicing for his show, or teaching dance lessons, or making up with Yuta. Kun hears them murmuring softly in the other room and feels sick. 

Kun packs away the rest of the porridge and, with tears trickling down his face even after years and years of practice, he seals away the rest of his heart, too.

**Author's Note:**

> #justiceforwinkun
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://oh-sicheng.tumblr.com) if you want more tears about china line.


End file.
